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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072200">Horror anthology</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horrorstan42/pseuds/Horrorstan42'>Horrorstan42</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempt at Humor, Ghosts, Horror, Murder, Psychological Horror</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:21:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horrorstan42/pseuds/Horrorstan42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of short horror stories I'm writing for fun. Some are jokes, some try to be scary.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Babysitter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Ghost exist regardless of your belief in them. They don’t require some peter pan stuff to make them real. They just are. And your doubt will not protect you.”<br/>I looked at the serious little girl sitting on the carpet and smiled. She did not smile back. She looked very interested as she asked, “What’s your favorite ghost, Amy?” <br/>I pretended to think for a moment before saying “I don’t think I have one. What about you?”<br/>She scoffed as though I had said something ridiculous. “I don’t have a favorite ghost. I like them all the same!”<br/>I tried a different tactic. “Well, what’s the nicest ghost then?”<br/>“No ghost is nice! They want to eat us, Amy! They only ever pretend to be nice to try and trick you!”<br/>I stifled a laugh. “To try and trick me? Why would they need to trick me before eating me?”<br/>She rolled her eyes in that wonderful way that kids do. “Ghosts can’t just eat you wherever. They need to get you into the dark to have power over you. That’s why there’s less ghost sightings nowadays, because of streetlamps.”<br/>God, she sounded so certain. It was hilarious. But it was getting late, and I had stuff to do. I smiled at her as I stood up. “That’s awesome. But it’s getting late, and you gotta go to bed.” She pouted at me. “Oh, come on. Look, I’ll tell you a ghost story when you’re in bed.” She brightened up and scooted off upstairs, being sure to turn on the light first. Kids, man. <br/>I walked up at a more sedate pace and waited in her bedroom. She came in a few minutes later, immediately jumping in bed and looking at me expectantly. <br/>I smiled. “So, this ghost story. It’s about a clever little girl. A girl named Amy.” She giggled at this. “And she knew a whole lot about ghost. She knew that they were real, and that they liked to eat people. And she knew how to keep them away.”<br/>She shouted, “Stay in the light!” to this and I nodded. <br/>“So Amy was careful about ghosts. And Amy tried to make sure that everyone knew as much about ghosts as she did, so they could be safe.” I looked at Amy here, and she nodded. “But lovely Amy, as smart and brave as she was, didn’t know the number one rule about ghosts.” <br/>I reached up and flipped out the light, pressing my hand to her mouth to quiet her shriek. “And that rule is, little miss, that anyone can be one.” And now I smiled my real smile at her, the one that showed my real teeth.  Little miss Amy never stood a chance.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. My New Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>SO: This is a joke. I am NOT planning to kill any U.S. presidents. Just wanted to make that clear.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’ve always liked killing people. I mean, everyone does. Oh, don’t give me that look. You know you do. You just love driving down that highway in your car, not giving a shit that your fumes are destroying the earth. And you love your fancy coffees in those nice plastic cups. You love killing too. I just like to do it more directly.<br/>But I’ve always managed to keep a lid on it. Sure, I’ll indulge in a little roadside killing every few months, but I make sure it’s someone that won’t be missed, or who’s death will not be considered unusual. I mean, if you hitchhike on a highway at night, you probably want to die. I’d never let my kid do that! There’re people just like me everywhere. <br/>But I made a mistake with a killing a few months back. Apparently, some rich kid wanted to hitchhike to ‘see the world’. And when I offed her, all nice and neat, her parents got upset. So, I upped and moved to a new city, to start a new life. <br/>And here’s where the problem started. Once I got to my nice new city, my occasional murderous indulgences started to spiral out of control. No longer could I be content with an occasional, well concealed killing. It started one day, when I was just driving home from my lovely new job. I saw these 3 kids walking on the side of the road, and before I knew what I was doing, I was forcing them to dig their own graves in the woods! I thought it was just a one-time thing, a little new city anxiety. But then, heading to the grocery store, I saw an old woman and her granddaughter taking pictures of flowers in a field. And then, I was suddenly wrapping their bodies in a tarp and dropping them in a busy dumpster! And now, 4 weeks in, I’ve killed about 10 people! <br/>So, I wasn’t sure what to do. I mean, this is fun and all, but it isn’t sustainable. I’ll get caught in no time if I keep killing at this rate. I mean, they’ve uncovered about 3 bodies already, how many will be found in a month? I just can’t keep killing randomly. Which is how I thought of my plan. <br/>Instead of random killings, I’m going to assassinate the president! Then, I’ll try and get asylum in a country that hates the good ol’ US of A. I’m thinking North Korea. <br/>Obviously, this plan has a few flaws. Killing the president will be hard. But, if I practice by killing past presidents, I can develop my skills and then killing the current one will be a piece of cake. And, by killing more presidents off, I can make countries that hate the U.S. more likely to take me in. <br/>I’ve decided to start this plan off tonight. I’ve picked my place for an ambush, a normally deserted stretch of highway. I’ve heard Carter has a plan to drive here tonight. I’m not going to do anything fancy this first time, no forcing them to dig their own graves or the like. I’m just going to shoot ‘em and hide the corpses in the woods. No fuss, no muss. Should be easy as pie. Wish me well!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ugly Thing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The world is a fucked up place, sometimes. Scratch that, it’s fucked up all the time. Sometimes beautifully, wonderfully so. People write and think and do things that you simply cannot imagine. Everyone has their own little world inside of them, one you cannot get into. <br/>But sometimes it’s horribly fucked up. Sometimes we turn all that imagination and wonder to produce something awful. I don’t know who thought of this first, but someone, somewhere, thought what if I trap you inside your little world? What if I make it so you can’t leave your mind, and your inner world becomes a prison? What if I make it so you can’t feel, can’t see, can’t move, can’t do anything except think? I don’t know why they thought that. I don’t know how horrifying their own world would have to be, to do that to others. But someone thought it, and a whole lot of other someone’s thought that that would be a good idea. And now I make sure that it happens. <br/>Yeah, it’s evil. But we all have a job to do, don’t we? And if I didn’t, someone else would. But I do it because I need to eat and pay rent. I make sure that whoever is decided to deserve it is locked inside their heads, unable to escape. I watch the brainwaves and statistics flow across the screen, making sure that sensory input is cut off, that movement is impossible. <br/>I watch over a whole group. A middle age man, who’s been convicted of raping and murdering hundreds of children. A woman who blew up a high school. A young man who shot up his school. A man who tried to be the next Ted Bundy. A teenager who tried to kill the president and came to close to succeeding. A young woman who succeeded in being the next Ted Bundy. All trapped in their heads for a few years now. The teenager will get out in a few more years, but the rest are in for life. <br/>It’s genius, really. No escape possible. No communication possible. Punishment on a previously unthinkable scale. They hooked me up to it once, in training. Left me in for 2 hours. It was like dying, like being alone in a void. I don’t know how anyone come out of it sane. <br/> But they do. There’s been plenty like my teenager, who come out a bit worse for wear, but okay. And there’s been others, those who got wrongly convicted, and were released. They tend to come out fine. I’ve read some stuff, about how you do is just related to how much guilt you carry. I don’t think that’s true, though, because it was just horrible for me. But it is a crazy thing, that people come out alright. <br/>And the craziest part is, they still try to escape. They can’t, obviously. You can’t fight your own mind. But you can see, in my little graphs and charts, how they fight. Trying to reconnect to their senses. Look, one’s even doing it now. My little Ted Bundy girl. Her brainwaves fluctuating like crazy as she tries to fight her way out. <br/>It would be sort of tragic if she wasn’t a serial killer. It’s still sort of tragic, in a way. Fighting to be yourself, to be in your body. Used to be human right, or at least a thing that couldn’t be taken away. But now it can. And we can’t go back, we never can. So I keep watch, or someone else does. Honestly, I’m all but irrelevant to the process. Just a final fail safe mechanism. To a system that is the culmination of all the awful fucked-up parts of humanity.</p>
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